… wire that is.
I’ve recently restarted making jewelry out of semi-precious stones and beads. It’s been a fair amount of work, and you would not believe the blisters I’ve developed on my fingers. It’s been an interesting lesson, and a good way to disconnect from time to time. Just focus on moulding the wire.
Here are just a few of the pieces I’ve made so far.
If you like any of the pieces you see and want to buy them, they’re all available in my Etsy page. You can also use the splainyouathing coupon code to get 10% off. Purchases help keep me afloat.
As a result of all the different things going on with my body, not to mention our financial situation, finding clothes for me to wear can be really difficult. For some time now, I’ve been strongly considering starting to make my own clothes. In order to do a better job of this, I’ve been wanting to make a bodyform out of my own body shape.
I’ve been looking up different ways of creating one. There are tons of ideas out there, including ones using plaster, duct tape, insulation form, all sorts of ideas. I decided to combine all of these different ideas in the hopes of creating something fantastic.
At the same time as doing mine, I decided to also make one for Alyssa. For all that people give her lots of clothes, there are some pieces that she has always wanted but couldn’t afford. I thought it would be fun to also have a form of her shape, so that I could potentially make them for her.
I decided to start with hers, and while I suspected this might be the case for some time not, I finally had to admit defeat. Her bodyform was a disaster. First we ran out of tape. Then the foam wouldn’t set. Then the top foam sank into the foam that wouldn’t set. Then the whole thing ended up very tilted. Finally, the plaster would not stop crumbling and the whole thing finally fell apart today resulting in a dusty and crumbly mess.
Continue reading “Lessons from a Failed Bodyform”
I got inspired last night after accidentally walking in on a great art sale and picking up some new canvas sizes. I spent all night painting, and even continued throughout the day. On a lark, I decided to record the process.
You can also find the painting on Etsy.
A friend of mine has put together a kickstarter to help fund the creation of an amazing colouring book.
Her work blends the macabre and the fantastical. It’s stunning and really deserves to get made. If you are able and willing, consider donating to it. If not, please share the link to help a great artist get her start.
I’d like to consider myself a bit of a visual artist but these past ten years with depression have almost completely sapped whatever ability I had. I think I’ve made about five drawings in ten years. When I do create something I’m told I’m talented. But I just cannot seem to keep the inspiration or even the motivation going.
You hear a lot about how mental illness contributed in some way to an artist’s work; that they channeled their pain into their art. Whether that art be music, painting, writing etc, the point is they channeled it to mean something. My depression just spirals and loops back into itself and all I ever get out of it is more pain.
Which then makes me feel even shittier for not “depression-ing” right. Which I know is ridiculous, I know it’s just depression shenanigans and troll brain talking. I know it all rationally, but I still cannot shake the feeling that I’m a failure at depression. Isn’t that sad?
Lately, I’ve had a few ideas for a drawing and I can see it in my mind’s eye, but when I try to actually make it happen I draw a blank. (At least I’m punny?)
That’s what hurts the most sometimes. I know I have some talent at least. I know that I can make something beautiful but depression is always there just waiting to tell me, that no actually I can’t.
I remember having a pastel charcoals set when I was little. I used up the sketch pad rather quickly. I loved just sitting on the porch and drawing whatever came to mind, blending colors and getting my fingers covered in multi-colored dust. Sometimes I think maybe I can do that again, sit somewhere quiet, armed with a sketch pad and pencil and just draw what comes to me. But the fear is there; taunting me. Waiting for the first pencil stroke to land on the page, so the depression can start its bullying: why bother?, nobody will like it. You aren’t any good.
Why can’t I just ignore that, especially when I know that what my depression is saying isn’t true? It’s a never ending battle.